


Chance Meetings and Ill-Fated Lovers

by Ayotofu



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, I'm so ready for this you guys have no idea, M/M, Olivarry Suicide Squad AU, Slow Burn, Some Fluff and Humor at points too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayotofu/pseuds/Ayotofu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, in a movie, this would mean we were fated to be epic lovers,” Barry said before he was totally conscious of the words coming out of his mouth.</p>
<p>The man’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. “Well, since we’re both men, it would also probably mean that one of us dies tragically in the end.”</p>
<p>“I thought that was more for women in love than men.”</p>
<p>They both chuckled a little at that and Barry held out his hand for the other man to shake. “I’m Barry. Allen.”</p>
<p>Mr. Chiseled hesitated for moment before taking his hand in a firm grip. “Robert. Wilson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen.”</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Barry Allen meets Oliver Queen--who's been presumed dead for five years and now operates on the Suicide Squad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starrxlorrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrxlorrd/gifts).



> Oh mannnnn I'm excited about this you guys. Should I be starting another WIP while I've still got my Shado!lives story out there? Probs not. But this was just begging to be written. This first chapter is pretty short and I anticipate that future chapters will be considerably longer. That being said, enjoy!

On what would be the day his entire world began tipping sideways, Barry Allen was running late.

That, in and of itself, was far from unusual. Joe called him habitually tardy. Captain Singh called him _this close to getting fired Allen so help me God_. Whatever the case may have been, Barry’s feet pounded the cement sidewalk as he pushed through crowds of people on his way to Central City’s latest crime scene, steaming hot coffee in hand. Captain Singh wanted him there in five minutes and he was at least ten minutes out.

So it was, perhaps, only to be expected that he would slam into a man (who felt like a brick wall _Jesus Christ_ ) and dump all that steaming hot coffee on his _absolutely fucking ridiculous_ chest.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Barry said, rubbing at the man’s thin gray t-shirt awkwardly with a napkin that had once held a bagel. “Do you want me to—I can buy you another shirt real quick.”

“It’s fine,” the man said, his lips pressed into a thin line. Barry finally glanced up and got a good look at his stony face and good god it was even more ridiculous than his chest.

“No, it has to hurt like hell, let me at least get some ice—”

“It’s _fine_ ,” the man repeated, brown eyes flashing. “Don’t worry about it.” Then he pushed past Barry and vanished into the crowd.

Barry wound up being a full fifteen minutes late to the crime scene. Captain Singh gave him an earful and he quickly forgot about the man as he went to work.

\--

As Oliver Queen slipped away from the overly-flustered boy, Waller’s voice crackled in his ear. “ _You aren’t there to socialize, Arrow. Hurry up and get to the rendezvous_.”

Oliver knew that, of course, but he hadn’t really had much choice in the matter when some kid had run into him and spilled coffee all over his shirt (luckily, he hadn’t gotten any on the file tucked into the seat of his pants). But there wasn’t much point in telling Amanda Waller that; she was well aware. She just liked to remind him of her power over him. Just like there wasn’t any point in telling her that he had to change shirts first. There was very little about him at any point in time that she didn’t know.

“ _Copy_.”

His current mission wasn’t exactly typical Suicide Squad fare. Most of the time, they were out of the country, get-in-kill-everyone-get-out kind of missions, not this domestic, extended undercover stint he was currently pulling. But he was the only one on Waller’s payroll (if he could call it that, since he was fairly certain he didn’t get paid) with such high-level contacts in the Bratva, and she needed intel on one of their members in Central City.

So here he was, living some twisted facsimile of a normal life while working for the Bratva, with colored contacts and dyed hair and an apartment with more mold than food.

He grabbed a shirt from the nearest vendor, throwing a few crumpled bills at the man in the booth before ducking in to the nearest public bathroom to change. The plain gray was swapped for a white shirt with “I LUV CC” written on it in bold black font. Fucking fantastic.

In the end, he was a full twenty minutes late for his rendezvous with Waller.

She raised her eyebrow at his shirt. “Interesting fashion choice there, _Oliver_.” He hated the way she said his name. _Oliver_. Like she was rolling it around in her mouth, chewing it a little, and then spitting it out, marking her ownership of him.

“Well, I’ve really come to appreciate this city in my time here,” he said, deadpan. He reached into the back of his shirt and pulled out the file. “This is everything I’ve learned about Vasily Antipov in the past two weeks.”

Waller took the file and began to look through it. “Did you find out his plans yet?”

Oliver snorted. “The man doesn’t trust me with his _dog_ , much less his secrets.”

“Then you have two more months to gain his confidence,” Waller said, “or millions of people will die.”

He could always count on Waller’s sunny disposition to brighten up his day.

\--

By mid-afternoon Barry was seriously flagging. He’d lost all his coffee that morning, after all, and he’d been up late the night before doing more of his _investigating_ (Joe liked to call it obsessing). By the time he got off work, he was about ready to pass out, but he still had several hours’ worth of files to go over back at home, so he stopped off at Jitters on the way.

And there, waiting in line, was the guy he’d spilled on, in all his _ridiculously chiseled everything dear lord_ glory. He was now wearing an I LUV CC t-shirt stretched tight across his chest and Barry couldn’t help but stare.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time (which he would later deny) debating over whether to go up and talk to the guy, try and apologize again, or to just pretend it had never happened. The choice wound up being made for him, however, when Mr. Chiseled (and there was something distinctly familiar about him, like he’d seen him before, but never spoken, like someone he’d gone to school with but who ran in totally different circles) grabbed his coffee, he turned to leave so swiftly that he wound up colliding with Barry, who was still just standing in the doorway like an _idiot_.

And that was how, twice in one day, Barry Allen collided with the same stranger and coffee was spilled.

Except this was fresh coffee, boiling hot, that was on _Barry_ this time, and Barry did not have much in the way of stoicism.

“Jesus Christ!” he screeched, desperately pulling rubbing at his chest—not that it did him any good. If anything, the burning only got worse. “Ow ow _ow_.”

“Oh _shit_ I’m sorry,” the man said. Around them, people were tittering at the scene and Barry found himself grateful that Jitters was mostly empty at this time of day. The cashier came up to them hesitantly to offer assistance but the man waved her off. “C’mon, let’s go into the bathroom and get you cleaned up.”

Once they were in the relative privacy of the bathroom, Barry slowly peeled off his shirt, wincing as shiny pink skin was revealed. He took a moment to be embarrassed at his muscle-mass (especially next to a man who looked to have more muscle than Barry had flesh and bones _combined_ ) before Mr. Chiseled was gently wiping at the burn with a wet paper towel.

“You know, in a movie, this would mean we were fated to be epic lovers,” Barry said before he was totally conscious of the words coming out of his mouth. Oh _God_ did he really just say that?

The man’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. “Well, since we’re both men, it would also probably mean that one of us dies tragically in the end.”

“I thought that was more for women in love than men.”

They both chuckled a little at that and Barry held out his hand for the other man to shake. “I’m Barry. Allen.”

Mr. Chiseled hesitated for moment before taking his hand in a firm grip. “Robert. Wilson. Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen.”

“Call me Barry,” he said. “And back at you.”

“Well then, Barry, you can call me Robert. And here,” he said, pulling out a couple of crumpled bills. “So you can get a shirt on the way home.”

Barry shook his head. “Keep it. Quid pro quo—I ruin your shirt, you ruin mine. We’re square.”

Robert grabbed the cash and, giving a little wave, headed toward the door.

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” Barry called after him.

Robert said nothing, but he gave a little smirk in acknowledgement before he left, the door swinging shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry gives Oliver a nickname and this gets closer and closer to a coffee shop AU.

Lasagna, Oliver thought, was not supposed to be crispy, as he swallowed another damn near inedible bite. He hadn’t thought it was particularly possible to ruin lasagna so thoroughly, but the restaurant down the street had managed it. Even his school cafeteria food was infinitely better than this—and damn, if those kids from his school could see him now… Oliver Queen, royalty among the rich, choking on overcooked pasta in an apartment roughly the size of his old bathroom.

Not for the first time, he wished he had the time and money to try cooking for himself. But all of his time was devoted to the mission and all of his money went to basic expenses. Most of what he ate these days was take out and ramen; the lasagna was actually supposed to be a treat.

Really, it figured. Today was one of those days where nothing went right. He was having more and more of those days as time went by.

“ _Arrow, check in_.” It wasn’t Waller on the comms this time, but rather his other handler for whenever Waller wasn’t available. He hadn’t met them in person yet; all he knew about them was their codename—Harbinger.

“I’m back at the apartment for the night.”

“ _Contacts_?”

“Mockingbird at 0923. Anton and Nikolai Babkin, Vasily Antipov, Alyona Vanzin, all from 1004 until approximately 1700 hours. The cashier at Jitters at 1732 hours—nametag said Gabby. Whoever answered the phone at Mario’s at 2223. The cashier working at Mario’s at 2249—no nametag.” He sighed. Barry Allen wasn’t someone he wanted ARGUS to know about; two run-ins in one day would surely pique their suspicions. It had for Oliver, after all, but two minutes of conversation was enough to convince him that Barry Allen was not a threat. But Waller would be much harder to convince, and she already knew that someone had spilled coffee on him—but maybe not about the second run-in? Where he’d actually learned Barry’s name? He’d turned off the comms by then, and there were no security cameras in Jitters. It was risky, but…

“Someone ran into me on my way to meet Mockingbird at approximately 0900. Spilled coffee on my shirt and apologized. I left the scene almost immediately. No further contacts.”

Oliver waited with bated breath for Harbinger’s response.

“ _Copy. Anything else to report?_ ”

“No.”

“ _Next check in tomorrow at 0600._ ”

“Copy.” He flicked the comm off in his ear and removed it, heaving a relieved sigh and placing it on the counter. He wasn’t particularly tired and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep any time soon, but with nothing else to do, he lowered himself onto the sleeping bag in the corner of the room and prepared himself for a long night.

\--

Barry had barely sat down with a wince as the still-tender burn twinged and an exhausted sigh before there was a knock at his door. Heaving himself to his feet and shuffling over to the door, he looked through the peephole to see old Ms. Cavendish standing there with a tray of cookies.

Loretta Cavendish was one of the most _interesting_ people he’d ever met: some odd amalgam of the most stereotypical old person traits one could imagine and yet she led the life that Barry could only hope to lead when he was her age. She regularly brought him home-baked goods as a bribe to get him to come help her with her electronics, but then at 80, she’d had both hips and knees replaced just so she could keep dancing with her dance troupe. Up until she’d moved to Central three years ago, she’d been an avid gardener and beekeeper. She was a tall, but pudgy woman, her dark skin drooping off her like melting wax. She’d never married—as far as Barry knew, she’d never looked at anyone in a remotely sexual or romantic way her entire life (“Romance is cute and all,” she said once when he asked her about it, “but I’ve never had much interest in it. Always had something more important to take care of. Like my bees.” She’d laughed a little, then—“I think you kids have a word or two for it—asexual? Aromantic? I don’t know; I’ve never cared much for labels myself.”)

“Hey there, Ms. Cavendish,” Barry said as he opened the door, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to conceal a yawn. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, Barry, I saw you come in and I had just baked this batch of nice chocolate chip cookies and I thought, ‘that nice young man looks like he could use a pick me up!’ so I brought some over.” Ms. Cavendish always did this: she presented the baked goods as being a gift completely independent of her request for help. Then she got a good look at him. “What happened to your shirt?”

Barry had forgotten he was still wearing the shirt Robert had spilled on. “Oh, someone spilled some coffee on me.” At her suddenly angry face, he cut off what he was sure would be a well-intentioned rant on his behalf, “He apologized and cleaned me up and besides, I spilled on him first.”

She gave him a look that meant she didn’t quite believe him but let it rest, handing the platter of cookies over to him.

“Thank you, they look lovely,” Barry said. He thought back to the piles and piles of work waiting for him back in his room and mentally groaned even as he spoke, “Is there anything I can help you with this evening?”

“Now that you mention it…” she said, green eyes twinkling, “I’m trying to get one of those Facebook whatchamacallits and I could use some youthful assistance.”

He took a moment to process what she’d said. “Accounts? Facebook accounts?”

“Yes. It’s the social media for old people, right?”

“Alright, it should only take me a minute.”

All told, it took him about thirty minutes after he’d gone over to her apartment (the woman was 82 and she lived on the third floor all by herself) because Loretta kept asking him to go back and explain exactly how he’d done everything he’d done and then she wanted to do it herself. Just when he was finally about to leave, she called him back.

“Barry, wait! I have something for you.” She shuffled into her kitchen while Barry waited alone in her living room.

“Ms. Cavendish, I’ve got a lot of work to get to—”

“Found it!” she interrupted his attempt to extract himself from her presence as she came back into the room and thrust a tube of some sort into his hands. “It’s ointment. For that coffee burn that’s had you wincing all night. Now go get your work done.” She sent him off with a wave.

Later that night, as he took a bite of her gooey and delicious cookies, he couldn’t help but think he preferred crisper cookies, like his mom used to make.

\--

Oliver loved Saturdays.

The Bratva didn’t exactly operate on the standard work week, but he generally wasn’t expected to do anything for them then so it was like a day off. A day where he could read (and who knew that reading would become a luxury for him), or exercise or relax a little (not that he ever really relaxed).

On this particular Saturday, Oliver was in a corner booth back at Jitters. He had four different coffee shops that he went to for security reasons and by all rights he shouldn’t have been back there again so soon after such a public incident, but it was the only one without security cameras and he desperately needed a few hours without feeling Waller’s watchful eye on him (not that it ever went away, really; he had the damn bomb in his head to prove it).

“We’ve got to stop meeting each other like this.”

Oliver looked up from the book he was reading to see Barry Allen, standing over him with his arms crossed and a cheeky-ass grin on his face. “At least neither of us has any coffee this time.”

“That is true. And might I ask,” Barry said, sitting down across from Oliver without further preamble, “what are you doing in a coffee shop if not buying coffee?”

Oliver raised an eyebrow at him. “Reading,” he said, holding up his book with one hand.

The other man ( _man_ was something of an exaggeration—seriously was he even _twenty_?) looked at him expectantly, as though waiting for him to say more. Oliver returned to his book, smirking a little at his outraged huff. “You’re not gonna ask _me_ why I’m here?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“It just so happens that I’m here visiting my best friend,” Barry said as though Oliver hadn’t even spoken. “She’s a waitress, working right over… there.” He pointed at a beautiful black woman chatting amicably with a couple of her customers.

“Isn’t it rude to point?”

“I wouldn’t know. What are you reading?”

Oliver held up the book so Barry could read the title.

“To Kill a Mockingbird. That’s a great book.” Barry paused, again with expectation on his face. When Oliver said nothing, he laughed. “You’re not much of a talker, are you, Rob?”

“… _Rob_?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Just call me Robert.”

“What about Bob?”

“No.”

“Robby?”

“No.”

“Bobby?”

“No matter how many variations of Robert you propose, my answer won’t change.”

Unsubdued, Barry thought for another moment, then snapped his fingers in realization. “I’ve got it! _Bobbo_.”

Oliver stared at him for a long moment. “I changed my mind,” he said slowly. “From now on you can call me Mr. Wilson.”

“Whatever you say, Bobbo.”

Oliver couldn’t hold back a groan. Barry laughed.

“I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Oliver hadn’t laughed like that in a long time and soon he and Barry lapsed into easy conversation.

\--

“Who’s the hottie?” Iris asked when Barry came back over to see her almost half an hour later.

“Robert Wilson,” he said, throwing a look back over his shoulder at the other man, still reading his book. His thin jacket had seen better days, and there were dark rings around his eyes that looked like they had been etched into his skin. “Could you do me a favor?”

“If you tell me what it is.”

“Now don’t overreact, but… Could you…” he hesitated, knowing exactly how Iris would react and not looking forward to it, before plowing on, “maybe send him over a coffee? I’ll pay for it, but don’t let him know it’s from me. Like wait ‘til I’m gone and then tell him it’s on the house or something.”

Iris opened her mouth wide. “Does someone have a _crush_?” she teased.

“No!”

“You _do_! Oh Barry, this is so exciting!”

“No I _don’t_ Iris. I just—he looks like he could use some coffee. And he seems like someone who wouldn’t accept it from me. That’s _all_.”

Iris just laughed and patted his shoulder. “You’re so easy to tease, Bare. Seriously though,” she said with a brilliant smile, “I think it’s a really sweet thing to do. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t know it was you.”

“Thanks Iris,” he said. “I’m sorry; I know I didn’t end up hanging out with you much but I’ve actually gotta run—got some more work to do, but I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Go! Do your work!” she said, giving him a little push toward the door. “See you later.”

Barry took one last look at Robert, sitting alone with his book, before heading back to his apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris ships it and Vasily is human-shaped pond scum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long guys. A lot's happened lately, but at last! Chapter three, wherein, for the first time, Barry and Oliver do not interact but a lot of other stuff happens.

“Nikolai tells me that Anatoly speaks very highly of you,” Vasily said, rubbing a hand across the patchy stubble on his boyish face. All in all, he didn’t cut a very impressive figure: small, soft, with downy hair and a pitiful beard that looked like it belonged on a fifteen year-old, not a middle-aged man and the head of the Central City Bratva. He wore thick-soled boots which added about an inch to his height, but Oliver still towered over him by a full head. The slight man had called Oliver over as he, Anton, Nikolai, and Alyona were in the middle of preparing a load of cocaine to be shipped, which he couldn’t help but be weirdly grateful for; drug-runner for the Russian mob was never in his top three career choices and the less time he spent actively participating the better.

“Yes.”

Vasily and Anatoly were not friends—in fact, Oliver hadn’t even had to lie (much) about his mission to get Anatoly’s support. He did not know the reason for their feud, nor did he care. What was important was the fact that aligning himself too closely to Anatoly would definitely undermine his attempts to gain Vasily’s trust.

“You don’t sound particularly enthusiastic about that.”

“I saved his life once, and in return, he was… useful in getting me here.”

“The admiration is not mutual, it would seem,” the man said with a simpering smile, picking dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocketknife. “Now, how long have you been with us in Central?”

“A few weeks.”

“And how long have you been with our organization?”

“I first met Anatoly a few months ago, but this is the first position I’ve had within the organization.” The truth of it was that he’d spent a fair amount of time in Moscow with Anatoly the year previous, but since Vasily was planning on betraying the Bratva, the fewer attachments he appeared to have the better.

“Well, Mr. Wilson, I may have special job for you. One that, if completed, will give you little extra…” he said, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal symbol for money. Then he pulled out a pen and a slip of paper and quickly jotted something down. “Meet me at this restaurant tomorrow at seven and we can discuss details. Oh, and be sure you dress _appropriately_.” Oliver looked down somewhat self-consciously at his grungy shirt and a jacket that could be charitably described as worn-out. “Now, in the meantime, you have job to do, yes? Get to work.”

Great. Back to his new and exciting career as a drug dealer.

\--

The next time Iris saw Robert Wilson, she almost didn’t recognize him. For one thing, none of his clothes had any holes; in fact, he was dressed resplendently in a tailored suit which accentuated his musculature. His hair looked cleaner, his stubble less scruffy, his teeth whiter.

But none of these changes had her doing a double-take so much as the stiffness of his shoulders and the knot in his jaw and the terrifying, utter, blankness in his eyes. This was a far cry from the man she’d watched joking with Barry just a couple days ago, who had refused the free coffee with a soft “No thank you,” but gave in when she insisted. This man seemed almost sinister, more automaton than person.

But she was a waitress. She had to smile and act natural.

“Well, you’re certainly dressed up,” she said by way of greeting as she came up to get his order. “Hot date?”

His little smile did nothing to lessen the tension of his jaw but it did soothe Iris for reasons she couldn’t quite explain and all of a sudden she knew, with startling certainty, that he was just as human as she. And she relaxed back into her normal self.

“Business dinner,” he corrected her. He took a moment to consider, as though unsure if he should say the next part. “Not looking forward to it.”

“I don’t think anyone looks forward to those things.”

He chuckled. “Well, really, it’s more like an interview.”

“Best of luck, then. Hopefully you’ll get the job and you can dress like this all the time!” She pulled out her order pad before he could respond. “Now, are you here for coffee or for Barry?”

Damn, but his flabbergasted face was actually pretty cute. He and Barry would be the most adorable couple.

“Just—a coffee. Black,” Robert ground out.

“Coming right up,” she said with a wink. Oh, this was going to be fun.

\--

Oliver _really_ needed to stop going to Jitters.

Not only did _Barry_ recognize him, but now Barry’s friend Iris had too. If Waller ever found out, both of them would probably die in a suspicious car accident and he really didn’t think he could take any more innocent blood on his hands. So it would be best for everyone if he never showed up there again. Save a lot of heartbreak.

Even as he ran through all the reasons why he shouldn’t go back to Jitters any time soon, he knew he would disregard them. Because the idea of having one part of his life, even just an acquaintance or two at the coffee shop, that Amanda Waller didn’t control, was simply too enticing. He just had to hope he could manage it.

Ah, who was he kidding? This would all blow up in his face sooner or later.

He kept a careful pace toward the restaurant—fast enough that he’d get there with time to spare, but slow enough that he wouldn’t have any sweat stains on the suit ARGUS had had made for such an occasion. Harbinger was his handler for tonight’s meeting with Vasily, and he heard the purposefully neutral voice asking him to check in just as he slipped the earpiece in and turned it on.

“On route to the restaurant.”

“ _Copy_.”

The place was called _Trattoria Giorgio_ and the menu in the outside window did not show prices. Oliver could only hope Vasily would pay for his meal.

\--

Vasily had insisted that they not talk business until they had finished eating, which just meant that the dinner was far more drawn out than Oliver wanted it to be.

Finally, Vasily heaved a satisfied sigh and threw his napkin down on his empty plate. “Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “to business.

“First, you must understand: what I am about to say, no matter your response, must never be repeated. You have nothing to gain from spreading it around because no one in our Brotherhood will accept your word against mine and you have _everything_ to lose. Do I make myself clear?”

Someone, at some point, must have told Vasily that he was intimidating and Vasily must surely believe it. There was no other way that he could take himself so seriously.

Oliver simply nodded.

“Good. Second, understand that this very lucrative job offer, one that will allow you to retire to your own personal island if you so desire. You should feel honored that I am offering it to you.”

He had a piece of spinach in his teeth and a dab of tomato sauce on his cheek. Oliver debated the pros and cons of letting him know for a second before deciding to see how long it would be before the other man noticed.

“Now, I have old friend, works in genetics lab. Has access to something that lot of people will pay billions for.” His tongue had dislodged the spinach, but the tomato was still there.

“Say I’m interested. What would you need me for?”

“I am very busy man. It will be ready in two months’ time, but I will be in Moscow then. You must pick it up and hold it until I return. Is very simple, and yet I pay you ten percent.”

It was more likely that Vasily just wanted Oliver to be the fall guy in case anything went wrong and the Bratva found out. The organization wasn’t particularly moral, but they did draw lines and Vasily’s plan would cross pretty much all of them.

“Can I have a day to think on it?”

“Of _course_! Take all the time you need.” For the first time, just when he was trying to be genuine, Vasily actually sounded somewhat sinister.

“Out of curiosity,” Oliver said, forcibly keeping his tone light, “what exactly is it that I would be getting?”

“Ah ah,” Vasily said, wagging his finger in admonishment. “I will tell you that once you need to know, not before.”

Once he got back to his apartment, Oliver turned his comm off and threw up in his toilet bowl.

\--

“Did I ever tell you that I was almost married once?” Ms. Cavendish asked as Barry showed her how to look up her old friends on Facebook (and enemies, it turned out; “Find Roger Johnson,” she’d said at some point. “I wanna see if that asshole has kicked the bucket yet.”)

“No,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t think that was really your thing.”

“Oh, it definitely wasn’t. But the man was one of my best friends, and he was in love with me. And I—well I didn’t want to marry him, but I did want a kid. I didn’t really understand how that worked, though; I thought that once you got married, kids just kind of _appeared_ when you wanted them. No one had ever really explained it to me.” At Barry’s laugh, she _whapped_ his arm lightly. “Don’t you be making fun of me, Barry Allen.”

“I’m sorry,” Barry said, choking back another guffaw. “Please continue.”

Ms. Cavendish gave him another suspicious look. “Well, I found out the truth before we got married, thankfully. And I told him that I wanted to break it off, figuring I’d just adopt a kid instead.”

“Did you?”

“Eventually, yes. They weren’t eager to let a single black woman adopt, but I kept at it and I got my boys,” she said. “Twins. John and Tommy. Best damn kids you’d ever meet. John was loud and sometimes troublesome, but he had a good heart. Tommy… Tommy was a lot like you. Goofy, a little awkward at times, and the sweetest boy in the world.”

It was a troubling use of past tense and Barry dreaded the question he knew he had to ask. “What happened?”

“Their numbers came up and—they left for Saigon and they—I never saw them again.” Loretta sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a downer, it’s just… tomorrow’s their birthday. And I just miss my boys.”

Barry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

They spent a moment in awkward silence before Loretta leaned over and poked at the computer screen. “Is that Gloria Danforth? That bitch always made fun of my hair. What the meanest thing I can do to her on here?”

Barry could feel the whiplash from that change of subject. “Uh, you can block her but that’s about it.”

“Can I send her a nasty message?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a bad idea. Maybe you should just let your grade school grudges go?”

Ms. Cavendish fixed him with a hard stare. “Fine,” she said slowly. “I’ll just ‘block’ her. Whatever that means.”

This was going to be a long night.

\--

“So,” Iris said as she wiped down the counter, “your cute friend was here the other day.”

“My who?” Barry asked.

“Robert Wilson! You know, chiseled like a marble-fucking-statue, wears a ratty jacket, likes To Kill a Mockingbird?”

“Iris, I’ve spoken to him twice; please don’t read more into this than there is.”

Iris waved his comment off and plowed on. “Anyway, he was here, which makes this three times in the past week.”

Barry narrowed his eyes at her. “Where are you going with this?”

“Well, clearly he likes this place. And I know I’d certainly like it if you stopped by more often. Who knows? You might just bump into him again.” She winked at him.

He pursed his lips. “Iris, are you sure this is a good idea?”

Iris stopped wiping and looked Barry straight in the eye. “If you’re asking if I think he’s the one for you, then I have no idea. But Bare—you’ve only ever had one relationship and I think it’s time you put yourself out there a little more. So as your best friend, I’m telling you to try flirting a little with the cute guy in the coffee shop and to just see where it goes.”

The door opened and a couple walked in, sitting at a table in Iris’s section. Moving away to take their orders, she paused to give Barry’s arm a little squeeze. “Think about it,” she said.

He didn’t doubt that he would.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry confesses (sort of). It does not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so basically what I got from the response last chapter was that everyone likes Loretta Cavendish. Which is good, because I like Loretta Cavendish as well. You're going to see a lot of her ;) Anyway, here's the next chapter (and out much quicker this time too!). Many thanks to RedHead and wordswehavesaid for beta'ing this chapter and being pretty fucking awesome at it too!

Four days later, Oliver found himself back in Jitters, nursing a cup of black coffee. Since officially joining Vasily, his Bratva pay had increased slightly and he could afford small treats more regularly. Like a second cup of coffee in one day.

And it just so happened that on that day, Oliver Queen would meet Barry Allen for the third time.

He thought it must be random happenstance (though he would later learn that Barry had been “visiting Iris” every day since the last time he’d been there) and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had the best luck or the worst.

“So Robert,” Barry said, sitting down across from Oliver with a dimpled grin, “Iris tells me you had a job interview the other day. How’d that go?”

“I got the job.”

“Great!” Barry said, before he looked closely at Oliver’s unamused face. “That is good, right?”

“It’s just… not what I wanted to be doing with my life.”

“Well, what is it?”

Oliver tilted his head slightly. “Courier. Of sorts. It’s complicated.”

Barry furrowed his brow. “How is being a courier complicated? I don’t follow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Oliver said, brushing that subject away. “What about you? What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a CSI for the CCPD.” Barry looked very proud of himself.

“Aren’t you a little _young_ for that?”

“I’ll have you know that I’m… very smart…” Barry responded, trailing off toward the end and looking over Oliver’s shoulder with a confused squint, before turning away entirely and scratching at the back of his neck.

“What?” Oliver asked as he followed Barry’s gaze behind him to see Iris West, looking somewhat sheepish (but not particularly cowed). “What’s that all about?”

Barry sighed. “She wants me to flirt with you.”

Oliver, who had just started to sip more at his coffee, immediately coughed and sputtered. “ _What?_ ”

Barry chuckled awkwardly. “That’s reassuring. And here I thought we had this whole meet-cute thing going on.”

“No, it’s just…” _I have a bomb in my head and I’ll probably get you killed just for talking to you like this now, let alone trying to date you_ “I’m straight.” He cringed a little at the lie he said it.

“Ah,” Barry said, and Oliver watched as the smile dropped off his face for what might be the first time since he’s known him. “Okay then. At least I can get her to stop bugging me about it now.”

They fell into an awkward silence for a moment before Barry spoke again. “We can still be friends, though, right?”

He should say no. He should act like the dick he always was and say it made him uncomfortable or something. “Ok, Barry.”

“Great. Then I’ll see you here, same time tomorrow?”

Oliver was going to hell for this. “Maybe,” he said. Barry smiled a little at that, but his dimples were gone. In fact, he had the barely-restrained look of someone about to either cry or punch something.

Barry kept that awkward smile up as he stood and made to leave. “Well, I should probably head out, but nice seeing you again Bobbo!”

Oliver groaned and rolled his eyes.

\--

Barry had no right to be upset by Robert’s sexuality. None. He barely even knew the guy, and he hadn’t really even flirted with him. All he’d said was that Iris wanted him to.

Maybe that was the problem, though. Maybe it was because he hadn’t even gotten far enough to take a chance before he was summarily shut down. How pathetic was that?

And it wasn’t Robert’s fault or anything either. He couldn’t really justify being mad at the other man for being straight; it wasn’t like he could control it. Really, this was just a rehashing of a lesson Barry should have learned a long time ago when he and Becky Cooper broke up: he would never be what someone else wants. He should stop trying to be.

Iris was giving him a “What happened?” look from across the room which he (very maturely) ignored in favor of _getting the hell out of that awkward situation as fast as possible_. He’d be getting a stern talking-to later, but for now he was pretending that he had some Very Important Work to be getting to (he should’ve faked a text from Joe or Captain Singh now that he thought about it).

But Iris followed him out (of _course_ she did, she was a good friend like that). “Barry? Barry what happened?”

“Nothing,” Barry said, making a gesture he intended to be dismissive but that came off more agitated. “Nothing happened.”

“Well clearly _something_ hap—”

“He’s straight, Iris,” Barry cut her off. “Completely, one-hundred-percent, straight as a fucking arrow and I’m never doing anything like that again.”

“Oh Barry.” Iris’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later.” Without giving her time to try and stop him, he walked away as quickly as he could without technically running. Which was totally different than running away. Really.

\--

If Barry was upset with him, Oliver reminded himself, then that was a _good thing_. That meant he’d be safer, in the end. He should not be wanting to get up and go after him, and under no circumstances should he come back to Jitters tomorrow.

God, how desperate for human contact was he that he was even considering it?

To be fair, the only people he’d had much contact with for the past few years were Waller, the other members of the Suicide Squad, and the faceless, nameless voice that was Harbinger—unless you counted the Bratva. But none of these were people he could ever call up at four in the morning just to talk, like Tommy, or people who could make his whole world right with a single touch, like Thea and his mother. And if he ever tried to contact _them_ they’d die within a day. Flirting with Barry (sweet, adorable Barry, who’d bought him a black coffee and still somehow thought that Oliver didn’t know it was him) would be just the thing he needed right about now.

But all of that still gave him no right to ruin Barry Allen’s life or get him killed. He was still just as selfish as when he first got on that damn boat.

The words “Queen Consolidated” flashed on the TV screen in the corner, drawing his attention just as Iris West walked back into the store. He saw his mother and Walter Steele (that’s right, they were married now) standing on a platform. Apparently they were dedicating the new Robert Queen Applied Sciences building.

Suddenly a picture of him and his father flashed up on screen. They were talking about the Gambit now and _there was a picture of him on the screen_.

Quickly, he looked away, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. In doing so, he himself failed to notice Iris West’s curious glance, first at him, then at the television, where the picture remained up for a few more moments.

\--

Loretta looked out her peephole again at the apartment across the hallway. “He should be here any minute, Lorraine.”

“Lori,” her younger sister sighed, “you do realize how rude that is, don’t you?”

“It’s not like he _knows_ I’m doing it.” Well, he’d probably figured out that she was doing _something_ by now since she always showed up at his door right after he got home, but there was no way she was telling Lorraine that.

And then Barry came into view, shuffling along, looking about as downtrodden as she’d ever seen him. For a moment, she couldn’t think beyond the fact that her boy was _sad_ and she didn’t know what to do to help.

“That’s not the _point_ —”

“There he is!” Loretta cut her off, grabbing her wheelchair and pushing her to the door. She had just the thing to cheer him up. “C’mon, let’s go introduce you.”

By the time they had successfully maneuvered themselves out of the room, Barry Allen had _just_ opened the door to his.

“Ms. Cavendish,” he said in surprise. “I haven’t even gotten inside yet.”

Loretta paid his tone no mind; she probably deserved it, if she was being honest. But honesty was for people who liked dealing with the inevitable cognitive dissonance of their own morality and their selfishness, so she just ignored those things instead. “Yes, well, I wanted you to meet someone. Barry Allen, this is my younger sister, Lorraine.”

Barry had that look on his face that meant he was about to say something slightly sassy. “Loretta and Lorraine? Really?”

Okay that deserved a _whap_ on the arm, but Lorraine reached up to stop her. “She actually picked it out,” Lorraine said. “You were, what, fifteen when I was born? And you just thought it was the funniest thing.”

“And so did our mother, so that’s what we decided to name her.”

Barry laughed a little. “So what brings you to Central City, Ms.—” He paused, apparently unsure what to call her since there were now two Ms. Cavendishes. She wished he would just call her Loretta sometimes, but that was a losing battle with this boy. “Ms. Lorraine?”

“Lori here dragged me down to come see her dance recital next week. And please, call me Lorraine.”

Barry looked somewhat uncomfortable. “Um, alright.” That meant “no” in Barry-speak. He would just “forget” about it later.

“Which reminds me!” Loretta said, giving Lorraine a dirty look ( _dragged_ her down, ha! She should be grateful that Loretta had gotten her free tickets for her and her daughter). She pulled out a pair of tickets from her purse. “Come see the show next Wednesday! Bring a friend!”

Barry took the tickets. “Alright,” he said slowly. “I’ll be there.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Barry,” Lorraine said, reaching up to shake his hand.

“You as well.”

Turning the wheelchair back around to get back into her apartment, she threw one last parting remark over her shoulder with a wink.

“Be sure and bring the star of the show some flowers!”

She could feel Barry’s reluctant smile at her back as the door closed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris is suspicious. Oliver gets a new job and fawns over Barry a bit. Internally, though. He has a reputation to uphold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao sorry this took forever again. I'd like to promise it won't happen again but... I'm honestly struggling a lot lately with various issues so these chapters will just sort of happen when they happen. Also sorry if this is low quality; I didn't exactly edit it. I just wanted to get it out ASAP.

“So,” Vasily said, pouring out two drinks and sliding one tumbler Oliver’s way, “do you have family, Robert?”

Oliver picked the glass up and stared at it for a moment. He thought of Thea, buying drugs at his grave. His mother, standing beside Walter Steele as they broke ground on the new QC Applied Sciences building. “No,” he said, downing the vodka.

“Ah,” Vasily said with a knowing lilt to his voice. Oliver fantasized briefly about breaking his nose. “Family is hard, yes?”

Oliver fixed his eyes on a point roughly two inches to the right of Vasily’s head as he worked to hide his annoyance. A fly was buzzing around there but he did not track it and it soon flew out of his line of vision, though he could still hear the buzzing. “Something like that.”

Vasily swallowed his own drink. “I understand. I have little sister, a perhaps eight years younger than you, and she can be… _difficult_.”

Oliver focused on pinpointing where the fly was in the room by sound alone. It was somewhere behind him, slightly to his right, he thought.

“Difficult how?” he asked, voice smooth.

The fly landed on Vasily’s desk as the diminutive man poured them both another generous amount of vodka. “She does not much care for what I do, what our parents did. She prefers dancing and Starbucks and yoga classes in the middle of the park. Things are… tense between us. Still,” he said, raising his glass and tipping it slightly toward his newly-favored employee, “she is family, and there is nothing I would not do for her. You understand.”

Oliver understood. “ _Sem’ya_.” He raised his drink in a toast.

“ _Sem’ya_ ,” Vasily echoed. After they had emptied their tumblers, Vasily sat back with a heavy sigh. “I did not call you here on a Saturday simply to discuss family matters; I have a new job for you.”

Vasily opened a drawer and pulled out a photo of a plain young girl with a round face and a pixie cut. “This,” he said, “is my sister. Klara. You are her new bodyguard.”

“What happened to her old one?”

“Nothing. I simply no longer trust Ivan with my sister’s security. He is loyal to the Bratva first and foremost; I need someone loyal to me.”

Oliver snorted. “I’m loyal to the paycheck, Vasily.”

“Yes, and since the one you will get from me is the biggest, I have earned your allegiance, have I not?” His watery eyes fixed Oliver with a sharp stare. “And if you allow for anything to happen to her, you will never see a dime of it. Or, I suppose, anything. Ever again.”

Vasily expects for Robert Wilson to be intimidated by his threat (which was, at best, mediocre; it had little to no creativity and the delivery in particular was lacking any resonance. Oliver almost didn’t believe he meant it) so Oliver swallowed audibly and leaned back in his chair as if to create space between them.

“When do I start?” he said, somewhat hoarsely.

Vasily grinned. “Tomorrow morning, seven AM. Pick her up from her apartment and drive her to her dance class. Her address is on the back,” he said, handing Oliver the photo.

Looking down at the smiling young woman, Oliver couldn’t help but think that she looked nothing like Thea.

\--

Iris worried at her lip, staring down at the search results on her phone. It made absolutely no sense. It shouldn’t even be possible.

Before his tragic death at sea more than five years ago, Oliver Queen had been one of her favorite celebrity crushes, much to her dad’s chagrin. And now, looking at pictures of him once again, she couldn’t help but notice that he was the spitting image of the man who called himself Robert Wilson.

Certain things were different, though. For starters, his hair and eyes were the wrong color (but those were so easy to change). He was a lot more filled out than the billionaire playboy had been, as well (but he could’ve started working out or something it wasn’t much of a stretch). Plus, Robert looked like a man well-versed in the harshness of the world and its cold and lonely corners (but who knew what could have happened in five years?).

Maybe he was a doppelgänger. That was a thing, right? Some people just looked like other people and Robert Wilson just happened to look like Oliver Queen. He probably got mistaken for him all the time before the _Gambit_ went down.

But none of that could explain the look in his eyes as he watched the Queen-Steele family break ground on the Robert Queen Applied Sciences building (he was using the name _Robert_ , just like his father). There was a depth of emotion there that she couldn’t rationalize away as something else. It was personal—and what were the odds that a man who looks just like Oliver Queen would just happen to have personal ties to his family?

But if Oliver Queen was alive, why was he hiding in Central City, using a false name and colored contacts and hair dye? Why hadn’t he gone _home_?

What should she say to Barry?

“Iris?”

Startled, she jerked her head up from her phone to see Barry himself, standing in front of her, eyebrow raised. “H-hi Barry. What are you doing back over here?”

Barry’s eyebrow climbed even higher. “Um, Iris? We’ve been planning this day for weeks. The first day we’ve both had off in a month? Best friends’ day out? Ring any bells?”

“Right, yes, of course,” she said, getting up from the kitchen table. “Sorry, I just got distracted.”

“Whatcha doin’ there?” he asked, twisting his head around to try to sneak a look at her screen.

Locking it so Barry couldn’t see anything, she swatted him lightly on the arm. “Bar- _ry_! Don’t you be creeping on my phone.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Barry held his hands up in surrender. “Are you ready to go?

She grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Let’s get a move on.”

“You two kids have fun,” Joe called from the den.

“Bye Dad!”

“Bye Joe!”

As they walked out to the car (Joe’s car, really, since neither of them could afford their own; whenever Barry wanted to visit he had to take a taxi), Barry reached into his back pocket and pulled out a ticket. “Before I forget,” he said, “Ms. Cavendish gave me a couple tickets to her dance recital next Wednesday. Would you like to come?”

She smiled and took the ticket from him. “I’d love to!”

As the day wore on, Iris was almost able to forget about Robert Wilson entirely and just enjoy her time with her best friend. Right up until Barry brought him up.

“So,” he said some hours later. “Should I go back to Jitters today and see if I can meet Robert and try to explain things and, I don’t know, apologize? For handling it so poorly yesterday? Or just avoid it all together and never speak to him again?”

“I don’t know, Barry,” she sighed. If Robert Wilson really was Oliver Queen, then something shady was going on and Barry did not need to be in the middle of that. Then again, he deserved to make his own decisions, didn’t he? She couldn’t just tell him what to do.

She should really just tell him everything.

“Iris? You okay?” Barry asked, waving his hand in front of her face. “That was supposed to be an obvious answer, you know? You were supposed to give me the push I needed to go back and face him like a grown-up.”

“Sorry, Bare. I’m… a little preoccupied at the moment, I guess. Don’t worry,” she said before he could ask what she was worried about, “I’ll let you know if I need any help or wanna talk about it or anything. But really, Barry, it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind about what to do. You just need to go do it. And you don’t need my help for that.”

Barry smiled softly. “Alright, well, I’m off to Jitters then.”

“Good luck!”

“Thanks. And Iris?”

“Hm?”

“You know, if you’re ever ready to share what it is you’re worried about…”

She smiled. “I know. I’ll see you later.”

“Goodbye.”

She hoped she hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.

\--

When Oliver had woken up that morning, he had fully intended on avoiding Jitters and ending his fledgling whatever-it-was with Barry Allen.

It was the smart thing to do. It was the _right_ thing to do. After the awkward encounter of yesterday, he certainly had an excuse that would make sense to Barry. And really, the further he was from Oliver, the safer (the _happier_ ) he’d be. Oliver would bring nothing into his life but darkness and pain (that’s all he was anymore, all he had to give). And Barry Allen deserved better.

And that was exactly Oliver’s problem. Barry was so basically _good_ , in a way that he hadn’t thought was possible since before he washed up on the shores of Lian Yu, that Oliver couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He'd spoken to the man only three times and every time he’d felt a little better afterwards. He’d forgotten what it was like to just _talk_ to someone—no hidden agendas, no sinister plots, just an honest-to-god conversation. When he talked to Barry, he could, if only for a moment, forget what he was. It was a powerful feeling. It was dangerous.

Oliver loved it.

So against his better judgment, he turned off his comms, went back to Jitters, ordered a black coffee, and sat down to wait.

Before long, Barry walked in, all smiles and nervous anticipation. He didn’t even bother with the pretense of buying a coffee first; as soon as he spotted Oliver in the back of the store he made a beeline straight toward him, stopping right at his booth.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence where both waited for the other to talk first. Finally, Oliver decided to give the kid a break and just start it off.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Barry said. He shuffled his feet. “Can I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

“So,” Barry said, sliding into the booth, “about yesterday. I’m—really sorry.”

Oliver quirked his head in slight surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—like—I didn’t really handle things very well, you know? I just sort of ran away. Which wasn’t cool of me.”

“‘Wasn’t cool?’” Oliver repeated, bemused. “Are you sure you’re out of high school?”

Barry huffed. “I’m trying to _apologize_ here.”

Oliver bit down on a smile. “Right, sorry. Go on, then.”

“Well, anyway. It wasn’t about you, it was about me and I just reacted badly. And stuff.”

Oliver couldn’t help but snort. “That’s one of the least articulate apologies I’ve ever gotten.”

The tips of Barry’s ears turned flaming red and he muttered something that Oliver didn’t quite catch.

“Seriously though, it’s fine. I didn’t take it personally or anything. No need to apologize. If anything, _I’m_ sorry that I made you so upset.”

Barry shrugged. “Wasn’t your fault. You can’t control how you feel.”

“Still, it hurt you and I’m sorry.”

Barry suddenly shook his head as though dislodging the somber mood from his brain. “Whatever, it’s done, let’s move on.” He leaned over, elbows on the table and chin on his hands. “So, I don’t know much about you, really. Are you from Central?”

“Yeah,” he lied smoothly, recalling the details of his cover story. Born ten miles outside of Central, moved into the inner city at age twelve. Lost his parents not long after. Only child. Grew up mean on the streets. Met Anatoly Knyazev when he last visited Central and saved his life, earning him entrance into the Bratva. “Born and bred. You?”

“Same here. So you’re… a courier, right? Sort of?” Barry was apparently continuing with his twenty questions. It should probably have distressed Oliver more than it did. “By the way, I’m still not really sure how being a courier is ‘complicated.’”

“Well, I’m whatever they need me to be. At first I thought that was mostly going to be the courier position but now I’m mostly working security.”

Barry’s brow furrowed. “Who on _earth_ do you work for?”

 _Shit_. His cover was made in order to fool the Bratva; he didn’t _have_ a cover job. Thinking quickly, he shot out the first company that came to mind. “Queen Consolidated. I’m working at one of their subsidiaries here in Central.” He cringed even as the words spilled out of his mouth. What a stupid move, tying himself to his family’s company. The last thing he needed was Barry associating him with the Queens.

Barry, largely oblivious to his freak out, just said, “Huh. That’s weird, but okay.”

Needing to get away from that particular topic, Oliver turned it back around on Barry. “What about you? I mean, I know you work for the police, but what exactly is it you _do_?”

“I’m a forensic scientist, so basically I analyze the evidence. I’m like—have you ever seen NCIS?”

“No.”

“Bones?”

“Assuming that’s a TV show, no.”

“CSI?”

“I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

Barry huffed again. Oliver couldn’t help but smirk a bit. “Well, then my planned analogies are all totally useless. Whatever, the point is that I fight crime with science and I’m awesome at it.” Oliver’s smirk widened. “You shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“ _You know what I mean_.”

Oliver grinned. He could really get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, _sem'ya_ is the english phonetics of the Russian word for family. It seemed appropriate.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, please come chat with me at ayo-tofu.tumblr.com :)


End file.
